Aiden stood over Ana’s shoulder and carefully watched her clean and dress the dog’s wounds. She seemed capable enough, but his knowledge of herbs was very limited. Only Master Tam could confirm the healing properties of the unguents she was using. Thankfully, the orchard keeper was nodding and smiling.
“Will the creature survive the day?” Aiden demanded of Ana.
She looked up from her efforts. “Not without a miracle. These wounds are severe, and the poor fellow is weak from blood loss.”
Aiden relived the blazing shine of gratitude in Isabail’s eyes. “Then perform a miracle.”
The healer grimaced. “You ask the impossible.”
“Niall has great faith in your abilities. He believed you could save the animal. Are you admitting that you cannot?”
Ana stood straight. “If you leave me alone with the animal—if you give me your complete and unwavering trust—I will do all in my power to save it. But in the end, it will be God who decides whether the dog lives or dies. Not I.”
Aiden’s gaze dropped to the animal on the table. Its breathing was shallow and labored. In his opinion, death was a certainty. But if it died, Isabail would be heartbroken. She clearly cared for the beast. He caught Tam’s eye and gave him the nod that excused him from the room. As the fur panel flapped shut behind him, Aiden delivered a fierce message to the healer.
“This dog will live, or you will face my wrath. Understand?”
Ana swept an errant lock of dark red hair from her face. She did not seem particularly fearful of his anger. No downward glances, no trembling hands—just a clean and absolute confidence in her actions. “Come back in an hour. God will have given His answer by then.”
“For your sake, I hope it is the right one.”
Giving her one last glare, he left her to the task.
* * *
Eager to see Gorm, Isabail went in search of MacCurran the moment Daniel’s wounds were tended to. Since John’s death, the hound had become a favored companion. Like her, Gorm lived for those moments when they escaped the castle walls and took to the hills on a hunt. She had added to the kitchen stew pot by way of her glossy winged merlin, while Gorm had run down rabbits with his long-legged pursuit.
She found the MacCurran chief in the lists—that section of the outer close dedicated to the warriors and their craft. He had entered into a mock duel with his brother, Niall, both men wielding wooden swords but forsaking the heavy padded cotun worn as protection by the others.
Reluctant to interfere, she stood back from the fray and watched for a time.
The two men were evenly matched. Where the chief had the advantage of size and reach, his brother gained points with speed and agility. Both had clearly spent many an hour in the lists.
With the sleeves of their lèines rolled up past their elbows and the necks unlaced, Isabail was privy to an entrancing display of rippling muscles. Neither man carried any spare flesh. As the duel continued—each whack and glide of the wooden swords as swift and strong as the last—the sheen of sweat enhanced the view.
MacCurran was surely the finest example of the male form she had ever seen. He was both long of limb and solid of shape. His movements were spare and deliberate, each one supported by heavy sinews that bunched and flexed under his smooth, tawny skin. Truly, he was the epitome of power and grace.
He was also devious.
Apparently tiring of the sport, he feinted to the left, waited until Niall was committed to that direction, then hooked a foot behind his opponent’s calf and tripped him. Niall attempted to recover, but MacCurran gave his chest a quick shove and the other warrior went down.
Niall hit the ground cursing his brother with a string of ribald words that brought a flush to Isabail’s cheeks.
MacCurran cut him off. “Mind your tongue, bratling. There’s a lady present.”
Until that point, Isabail was unaware that she’d been noticed. She advanced on the group, approaching the chief. His hair clung damply to his forehead and neck, and tiny droplets hung from his jaw.
“A word, if I may?” she asked the MacCurran. Her aim was polite nonchalance, but the words came out a tad breathless. Eyeing him from a distance never had the same effect as standing next to him. Even when Daniel’s warnings were fresh in her ear.
He took her elbow and led her a short distance away. “I may have misspoken earlier,” he said.
“How so?”
His blue eyes met hers. “The dog yet lives, but its injuries are very grave.”
“I would see him, if I may.” Gorm had given her so much comfort after John’s death; she owed him whatever solace she could provide.
“Nay.”
